Bunnies in Hats
by Payne's Gray
Summary: Various crossovers and ideas. Harry centric. Unbeta-d. Chapter 1: HPxPre-Thor, James doesn't care who his father is, Harry is still his son. Chapter 7: HPxRise of the Guardians, Pitch enjoys it – watching Harry writhe in the grip of his nightmare. Harry can see it in those hungry, cat-like eyes of his.
1. Mortal Blood HPxThor

Harry Potter X Thor, Pre-Thor, Loki is Harry's father.

* * *

"Don't move," James said, eyes narrowing as he leveled his wand at the man's heart. Or at least at where he thought his heart was. For all James knew the man kept his heart on the right side. Or maybe he had two hearts – or no heart at all.

The man glared back at him but remained where he stood. He only moved to raise his open palms up – a reluctant gesture of peace. James didn't know his name. He hadn't been told and he'd never asked. He didn't much care to know either.

The man was just as James had imagined he'd be. Tall, pale skin, ink black hair combed neatly back, and a thin, handsome face. His clothes were strange – layered fabric of green and black and a large decorative gold piece that lay over his chest. And his eyes… James' expression darkened.

"You know why I've come," the man said, his voice smooth and cultured, but with a razor edge to it. Those damned eyes of his slid past James to peak in the open doorway behind him.

James instinctively took a step forward. "You stay away from my family," James growled, his wand nearly touching the man's chest.

The man glanced down at wand and frowned. When he looked back up, James nearly flinched at the wide, inhuman smile that grew on his face. "I think we both know what is and is not '_yours_'."

At that James did flinch. His hands shook as he forced back the bitter feelings of guilt and betrayal. They had put it behind them. They had moved on as husband and wife – as a family. They were happy now. James wasn't going to let this man destroy what they had struggled so hard to build.

"Harry is my son," James declared firmly.

The man raised an eyebrow and the smile on his face was mocking.

"I'm the one who stood by Lily through the pregnancy," James continued, spurred on by that smirk. "I'm the one who held him when he was born. I'm the one who rocked him to sleep when he cried. It's my name he bears! I am his father and he is _my_ son. Not yours!"

The man's smile had disappeared, replaced now with a furious glare. "Such sentimentality is meaningless," he bit back. "The child is mine and I will not allow some worthless mortal to keep my son hostage."

James was suddenly keenly aware of just how not human this man was. He braced himself for an attack.

"James," a voice he knew and loved called gently. He winced internally. He hadn't wanted to wake Lily. He hadn't wanted her to have to see this man ever again. He looked back over his shoulder. His beautiful Lily stood just inside the door dressed only in her nightclothes. He smiled back at her reassuringly.

"Lily, it's fine. Go back to-," he started.

"Don't you tell me to go back to bed, James Potter." Lily stared him down through the threshold.

"Er," was his intelligent reply.

She stormed forward, nearly knocking James over, to glower up at the much taller man.

"What are you doing here?" Lily demanded. "I thought you'd made your opinion of mortals, and of me, clear." James swallowed back anger and jealousy. There was hurt in her voice. Hurt that shouldn't have been there. Like the man's opinion _mattered_. James hated him all the more.

The man hesitated, looking almost vulnerable in his uncertainty. Almost human. "I… I have not returned to since…" James' eyes narrowed. "I only recently learned a child had been born." He straightened his stance and any vulnerability there might have been disappeared. "I've come to take the child to Asgard where he belongs."

"He belongs here," James argued.

"He belongs among those who can properly care for him," he countered, eyes blazing. "No human can give an Asgardian child the care and discipline he will require. He will be stronger than mortal children. In Asgard he will have others of his kind with whom he can play without fear of harming." James frowned at that. Harry had always seemed like a normal baby to him. He certainly hadn't noticed any greater strength. Maybe that was something that came later?

"And what is more, your people are at war. Humans kill each other in the streets. Not even your sorcery can protect you. Asgard is free of this. In Asgard the child would be safe." He raised an infuriating eyebrow in challenge. Daring them to argue against this point. After all, what parent didn't want their child safe?

James was frustrated by his own lack of response. But Lily shook her head, "I won't give up my son." The man's eyes narrowed.

"I won't give up my son," she repeated firmly. Determination flashing like lightning in her green eyes. "I don't care if Harry will be different from other children. I don't care that raising him will be a challenge. He's my baby and I'll do whatever it takes to give him the best life I possibly can."

James smiled and took her hand, a silent assurance that he was with her. She smiled back and squeezed his hand.

The man scoffed at them. "You honestly believe you can give him the best life possible? Do you think you can even protect him? Your war cares little for the lives of children. Even Asgardian infants are vulnerable."

"I'd give my life to protect Harry any day," Lily answered without hesitation. "If you want to take him you'll have to kill me first. And then one day you'll have to explain to him why you murdered his mother." James clenched his teeth. It was difficult to not protest the concept of Lily dying – he loved her so much. But he thought of the small helpless baby asleep in his cot. There was no denying he would do the same.

The man's gazed steeled. He seemed to be weighing her words.

"May I at least see my child?"

James was taken aback. He had given up? Was the possibility that his son might one day think him a murderer enough to make him relent? It certainly seemed that way. Or maybe… James griped his wand tight. Or maybe he really did intend to murder them. James tried to silently convey to Lily that this was a bad idea. She hesitated, glancing from her husband to the father of her child. Then, having made a decision, she nodded.

"Alright. You can see him, but if you try anything…" Lily let the warning hang, and James drew himself up to full height, ready and willing to take care of any threat.

They let him into their home. Lily led the way up to the baby room while James followed from behind keeping an eye out for any threatening moves.

Lily opened the nursery door slowly so as not to make any noise, and poked her head inside.

"He's asleep," she whispered in warning, and they the entered the room. The quiet was strange. Almost sacred in a way. Even the man didn't dare make a sound as walked toward the cot.

James couldn't help the smile that formed was he looked down at the boy sleeping peacefully on his stomach. It was an automatic reaction every time he watched Harry. He was a beautiful baby. Nearly three months old and getting bigger every day.

James must have imagined the sharp inhale he thought he'd heard the man take, because when he looked up at him his face was steely as it had been before. Then the man reached out. James tensed, but all he did was lightly brush a single finger over the back of Harry's small hand. He took Harry's hand gently in his fingers. James watched the man closely and saw the ridged expression fall into a deep frown. Slowly, he pulled his hand away.

The man looked up at the mobile hanging over Harry's cot. He watched the owl, dragon, hippogriff, and a phoenix spin in a slow circle. His hands curled into fists before relaxing.

"You have nothing to fear from me," he said, slowly. His words were soft. Not just quiet but soft. And there was something… something James couldn't quite place. "I will not return. You may raise your son in peace," and then he turned for the door.

Lily watched him with wide, surprised eyes.

"Wait," James said without really knowing what he was doing. He reached out to stop the man, grabbing him by the arm. The man turned and glared at him, but there was no real fire in his eyes. James released him.

"What- why-?" James was confused. He glanced back at the cot.

"That child belongs here." The man turned away from him, about to leave when he stopped. Green eyes, the same shade of impossible green as the sleeping baby's, locked on James. James took a step back at the sheer intensity of those eyes.

"Protect him," he said. James could do nothing but nod, and the man was gone.

His no-verbal promise would be put to the test one year later. James would die fighting. He would die fearing he had failed. His wife, too, would die that night, having refused for a second time to give up her son. But Harry, their beautiful little boy with messy black hair, bright green eyes, and the most adorable laugh, would live. And that alone was a victory.

* * *

Six year old Harry Potter fought back tears as he wiped dirt off his scrapped elbow. Dudley had pushed him over when he tried to play with the other kids and they had all laughed at him. Harry didn't like his cousin. He was big and mean and liked to hurt Harry. Harry wished he could tell Mrs. Martin what Dudley did. It was against the rules to push other kids, but he knew better than that. Getting Dudley in trouble would only make Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon mad at him. So he hid behind the shrubs on the far side of the playground where no one would ask what happened to his elbow.

"Excuse me, young man. Are you alright?" Harry started and spun around. A tall man in a long coat and scarf stood behind him. Harry quickly glanced around to see if maybe the man was talking to someone else, but there was no one else. The six year old couldn't help but blush. He'd never been called a 'young man' before.

"Fine, sir," Harry answered and tried to subtly cover his bleeding elbow. The man frowned causing Harry to wince. Then the man knelt down in front of him. Harry stared at his long, probably expensive, coat brush against the ground. Aunt Petunia would throw a fit if anyone ever got dirt on clothes that nice, but the man didn't seem to mind.

"That looks like it hurts," he said nodding to Harry's poorly concealed wound.

"It's nothing, sir," Harry said hurriedly. He really didn't want his teacher to find out. She would tell his aunt and uncle and they would be mad at him. The man frowned again but then he gave Harry a small smile.

"Well, it's still not a good idea to leave it untreated. Here." The man reached into his coat and pulled out a plastic water bottle. He uncapped it and motioned for Harry to hold out his arm. After a moments hesitation, Harry did so and the man poured the water over the wound. Harry tried not wince too badly when the cold water made contact. "My apologies," the man said with a sympathetic smile.

"'s ok," Harry mumbled. His face heated further. No one had ever given him so much attention before. The man gently wiping his elbow dry with a cloth from his pocket. He then covered the wound with a green bandage decorated with multicolored paw prints.

"There," the man said with a bright grin, and Harry couldn't help but smile sheepishly in return. "All better?"

Harry nodded looking at the bandage. It really helped. His elbow didn't hurt at all now.

"Thank you, sir." The man placed a hand on his shoulder causing Harry look up at him. Harry noticed the man had very green eyes.

"My name is Loki." In the distance the bell rang signaling the end of recess. Harry was too trapped by the man's eyes to notice. He smiled again, but this time it seemed somehow sad. "You'd better be going, Harry. You will miss your class."

Harry's eyes went wide and turned to run after his classmates when he realized something.

"How did you know my-". He turned around.

Loki was gone.

* * *

End.

This idea has been stuck in my head awhile now. I wrote bits and pieces of it and I'm glad I finally got the whole thing down. In case it wasn't clear here's what went down. Lily and James had a fight that ended with Lily storming off and meeting Loki during one of his trips to the other worlds. She ends up falling for him(because what woman wouldn't?) and having a one night stand. Loki basically tells her she's worthless to him and takes off. James and Lily get back together and soon find out Lily is pregnant with Loki's child. After lots of fighting they decide to stay together and raise the baby. Loki finds out about Harry and tries to take him back to Asgard, but when he touches baby Harry's hand he discovers through mysterious Asgardian ways that despite Harry being his son, he is 100% mortal.

Heartbroken from having a child that will age and die long before he will, Loki leaves and vows to forget about Harry. This proves too difficult for him and he checks in on Harry ever once in a while.

I imagine that Harry's story would continue as canon through the books(minus the epilogue). I can just see Loki going to visit his son during The Avengers and drawing the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D. Thor would probably be thrilled to learn he's an uncle. Loki would no doubt be furious at them for dragging his son into everything.

**Announcement!** This idea has been adopted by **wickedlfairy17**! Read **Blended Blood **in HP x Avengers crossovers!


	2. God Complex HPxDN

Harry Potter X Death Note, Shinigami!Harry(sort of)

* * *

"Good morning, everyone," Noguchi-sensei said warmly as he walked to the front of the classroom. Light responded with "Good morning" at the exact appropriate level of enthusiasm. He winced slightly at the shrill greeting his classmates gave.

"We have a new student joining us today," the teacher continued. He turned to the door and beckoned a boy inside.

He was a foreigner, Light noticed immediately. His eyes, framed by round spectacles, were a shade of green he'd never seen naturally on a Japanese person. The boy's hair was a dark, inky black and completely wild.

Light frowned as he examined how the teen was dressed. He wore the same uniform as all the male students but with a few questionable alterations. He'd loosened his tie and his shirt was untucked. He'd even left the top buttons undone, revealing a hint of a silver chain around his neck. In place of the standard tan pants, the boy wore old frayed jeans. For some reason these obvious breaches of dress code seemed to go unnoticed by Noguchi-sensei.

The foreign boy walked to the front of the class – his hands stuffed in his pockets, and looking completely at ease. In front of Light, two girls turned to each other, giggling over how cute they thought the new boy was.

"Hello," the boy said in lightly accented Japanese. "My name is Potter Harry. I'll be joining you for the remainder of the year."

Potter was given an empty seat at the front of the class. The teacher dove into his morning lecture, and the excitement over the new addition quickly faded. Light let his thoughts drift back to the Death Note that sat safely in the desk draw in his room.

'_Just suppose I gave this notebook to someone else, could they do it?'_ Light thought, looking at his classmates who were bemoaning the difficulty of schoolwork. Several had fallen asleep. One girl was trying to be subtle as she texted a boy in the next row. Light scoffed at them, children. Any of them would have run screaming if they'd picked up the Death Note. _'Nobody would have the guts…but I do.'_ Light closed his eyes, tuning out the world around him as he fell deeper into thought.

Light wasn't immature like them. He was an honor student – a genius. He was bound for the best school in Japan after graduation. He hadn't been afraid to test out the Death Note.

'_I could do it… Not just that, I'm the _only one_ who could do it.'_ It was true. Who else could have killed those men? Saved those people? Criminals were the scum of the earth. All too often the law failed to deal with them properly – permanently. Every day innocent people were made victims and no one stepped in to stop it. With the Death Note Light could change that. He could change everything.

'_So I'll do it!_ _I'm using the Death Note to change the world.' _Light declared to himself, exhilaration coursing through him. A plan began to simmer in his mind. He became distracted when he heard Noguchi-sensei order the class to open their textbooks. Light opened his eyes and froze.

The new student, Potter, was looking at him. No, not just looking. The other boy was _staring_ at him. The foreigner boy wasn't even attempting to be discreet about it. His whole body was turned in his seat in order to get a better look at Light. Potter made no move to look away, nor did he appear ashamed at having been caught.

Light glanced at Noguchi-sensei, who, despite standing directly in front of Potter's desk, gave no reprimand. In fact, the teacher did not appear to even notice. Light frowned as he looked back at Potter. The two remained locked in an odd staring contest for several seconds. The corner of Potter's mouth pulled up into a half smile and he finally turned away.

Light blinked at the mess of hair that was the back of Potter's head. He had no idea what that had been about.

Potter did not look at him for rest of the day, nor the day after that. Not once during the week did Potter look at him or anyone really.

The odd boy perplexed Light. His clothes, he was certain, were the same every day. So either the boy was poor or he simply did not care much for personal appearance.

He never saw the other boy write or even pick up a pencil, and yet Potter was always the first to hand in completed assignments. He was even faster than Light at completing a pop quiz, much to his annoyance.

The thing that puzzled Light most as he observed Potter, was that no one else did. The girls that had giggled and whispered about Potter seemed to have forgotten the boy entirely. He would have thought them merely fickle in their interest, but they were not the only ones. The teachers never called on him. The other students never spoke to him. It was as though no one else knew the boy existed.

Potter was a mystery, but one that was easily forgotten once Light returned home.

Every night he used the Death Note to punish criminals. All around the world criminals that had evaded the law were dying of heart attacks. It would only be a matter of time before people took notice. Soon everyone would know someone was passing judgment on the wicked, and wiping out the filth.

Light was changing the world…

* * *

"I'm home," Light announced as he closed the door behind him.

"Light, is that you?" his mother called. She rounded the corner and stood before him expectantly.

"Oh yeah." Light reached into his bag to retrieve the slip of paper. "Here," he said handing it to her. She skimmed it quickly before finding what she was looking for.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed with a bright smile, "You placed first again – and these practice college entrance exams are nationwide!"

"Uh-huh," Light agreed not really listening. It really wasn't that much of a surprise. The test hadn't even been very difficult. He passed her and made his way up the stairs. "Well, I'll be studying so don't bother me, okay?"

"Okay, dear," his mother said. "Oh, Light, is there anything you've been wanting?" she asked, probably wanting to give him some sort of reward for his test placement. "Anything at all – just let me know."

"No, Mom," Light said without looking back. _'I've already got what I want…'_

Light shut and locked the door to his bedroom. He leaned against it, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Then set in motion.

He flicked on the television and his computer. Light pulled the drawer of his desk open. At the very top sat an inconspicuous black notebook. On the cover, in spidery English lettering, read the words _"Death Note"_. Light lifted the Death Note, holding it in both hands with great care. It had been five days since he'd picked it up off the ground. It still amazed him how much power he now held.

His lips curled and a low laugh built in his chest. "Heh. Heh, heh-"

"You like it, hmm?" Light jumped at the voice. The Death Note fell from his grasp. It landed on the desk with a light thud.

Sitting cross-legged on Light's bed, with his face resting in his palms, looking for all the world like he owned the place, was Potter. He was still wearing the same ratty jeans and loose tie over his untucked shirt. His blazer had been abandoned though, and his feet were covered only in plain white socks. "Well," Potter continued, oblivious to Light's shock, "I suppose you must like it to have used it as much as you have."

"I– You– how did–?" Light stumbled over his words. His mind was reeling, trying to figure out exactly _how_ the foreign boy had managed to get into his room. And how he'd done it without Light noticing.

"I followed you in," Potter said, waving away the question like it was obvious. He then crawled across the bed and, stretching himself as far as he could, plucked the Death Note off the desk. Potter flicked through the name filled pages. Light tensed, if Potter saw the rules and figured out Light had killed those criminals… He hadn't tested suicide yet but he bet it would work. Potter Harry – or Harry Potter as western names were written – best write it both ways just in case.

"Hmm," Potter said turning another page. Light took a step forward ready to snatch the Death Note away from him.

"Why all heart attacks?" Potter asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity, and Light stopped in his tracks. Potter glanced up at him, his eyes even more shockingly green up close. He lift the Death Note to Light. "You only chose a cause of death, 'Traffic Accident', once. The rest you let die by heart attacks. Why?"

Light remained silent. What was going on? How did Potter know how the Death Note worked? Light was certain he hadn't read the rules. Potter waited expectantly, until he saw Light was not going to respond. He sighed.

"I'm not going to turn you in, you know," the boy said and set the Death Note back on the desk. "It's not my place to interfere with human affairs."

"Human?" Light repeated with dawning realization. "Are– are you saying you're _not_ human?" Light examined the boy more closely. He certainly looked human. He was thin, not particularly tall, looked to be Light's age, and pale enough that Light could see blue veins through his skin. He wasn't bad looking, his face was symmetrical, but he had some obvious flaws. Light could even spy some scar tissue hidden under that wild black hair.

"Well, not exactly," Potter said, playing with the silver chain the hung around his neck and disappeared under his shirt. "I'm– well, I guess you'd call me a Shinigami."

"Shinigami!" Light breathed out the word. He eased himself into the desk chair. He hadn't really believed in them, but now, with the Death Note…

"Of a sort," Potter confirmed with a smile.

Light swallowed hard.

"And this Death Note," Light began, lifting the notebook, "it's your, isn't it?" The shinigami looked thoughtful.

"Hmm, yes and no." Potter smiled at Light's confused expression and began to explain. "That Note originally belonged to another shinigami, Ryuk. He was the one that dropped it in the human world, don't ask me why. Every shinigami has a Death Note, but they are only allowed one. Somehow Ryuk managed to trick the Shinigami King into giving him a second.

"I felt immediately that a Death Note had landed in the Human World and went to the Shinigami King. He was less than pleased to learn he'd been deceived. The King doesn't like being cheated," Potter grimaced, and shook his head. "And since I didn't have a Note, the King gave that one," Potter pointed to the Death Note in Light's hands, "to me, not that I really need it."

Potter shrugged. "So yeah, it is mine, but it's also yours."

"Mine?" Light asked in surprise.

The shinigami nodded. "Once a Death Note lands in the Human World it belongs here. And since you were the one who picked it, it belongs to you. So you can do with it whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" Light asked in disbelief. "So there's no price to pay for using the Death Note?"

"I wouldn't say that. Everything has a price," Potter hand stilled around the silver chain. When he finally pulled his hand away, it seemed be with great effort. "It's said that humans who use the Death Note can never go to Heaven or Hell. But it's not like I'm going to steal your soul or anything," and that was all he seemed to have to say on the subject.

"Huh," that didn't sound so bad. "Hang on, there's one thing I don't understand."

"Hm?"

"If you're a shinigami why did you join my class? What was the point?"

"The point was to observe you, see what kind of person you are," the shinigami said. "Since I'm going to be stuck with you I wanted to know what I'd be dealing with."

"What do you mean?"

"Since that's my Death Note you have I'm bound to follow you around until you die or give it up."

"Oh."

"Now, my question," Potter said sitting up. "Why did you kill those people with heart attacks?"

Light smiled. "If you don't specify a cause of death they die from a heart attack. That's the best thing about the Death Note." The shinigami tilted his head in confusion. "I've already covered the most vicious criminals, so now the level of atrocity is coming down. And every single one of them will die of a heart attack!" Light became more and more animated as he spoke. Potter was silent as he watched him. His face unreadable.

"Even a fool is going to notice that somebody is bumping off the bad guys. I'm going to make the world know I'm here. That somebody is passing righteous judgement on them! And then nobody will commit crimes anymore. The world will become a better place.

"And while the people who obviously deserve to be punished are dying of heart attacks… I'll gradually be killing off immoral people and people who harass others, through illness and accidents." Light's smile grew. "Even that will eventually be noticed by the idiot masses. They'll realize they'll die if they don't change their ways. I'll make this a world inhabited by people I decide are good!

"And I…," Light's eyes gleamed. "I will become the God of this new world!"

"Hmm," was all the shinigami said as he leaned back on Light's bed. And then, "Hey Light, do you have any apples?"

* * *

End.

The idea behind this one was basically Harry takes Ryuk's place. After Harry becomes the Master of Death, Death aka the Shinigami King, essentially turns him into a human/wizard/shinigami hybrid. He's got all the powers of a shinigami, but doesn't need a Death Note to sustain his immortality. The King decides to give Ryuk's Death Note to Harry so he can keep an eye on Light's shenanigans. And Light gains a friend! Well, not really.

I had more I wanted to put into this but it just wouldn't fit. Maybe one day I will swing back to it and write a sequel…


	3. Lionheart AU

HP AU. BWL!Neville, Jumps around a bit.

* * *

1.

Neville couldn't remember the first time someone called him The Boy Who Lived. It was a title he had always had, just as he had always had his scar, but he did remember the first time his grandmother explained it to him.

He was six years old at the time. A little red-haired girl from a red-haired family had called him "hero" and said how sad it was that his mummy and daddy had died. The encounter had left Neville puzzled. He had gone to his grandmother and asked her what the little girl had been talking about. That was the day he learned of the bad wizard who had come to his home when he was a baby and taken his parents away. That day Neville learned he was famous because he was alive when he wasn't supposed to be.

That night he cried himself to sleep.

* * *

2.

Neville was not good at making friends.

It was no secret that he was terribly shy. His shyness made worse by all the attention his fame brought to him. Every kid he met would gawk at the scar on his forehead. They would follow him around and ask him questions about "You-Know-Who".

Neville would tell them to leave him alone and, once they realized he was no fun, they would.

Neville watched them play at a distance.

* * *

3.

When Neville was eight he met Draco Malfoy. The pale blond boy followed him around the playground, yet, unlike the other children, he did not go away when he found Neville boring. It made Neville uneasy.

When Draco cornered him, Neville gave a shaky, halfhearted "leave me alone".

Draco laughed at him. The pale boy pushed him, called him "scarface", and said he was probably a squib.

Neville ran to his grandmother with teary eyes. Draco was a mean boy.

* * *

4.

Neville hated going to Diagon Alley. Every time he went people would stare at him and his scar. Neville wished he could grow his hair out to cover the mark, but his grandmother would not have it. Gran would also not have him staying at home while she bought his school supplies.

Neville had been thrilled, at first, when he got his Hogwarts letter. Proof that he was not, in fact, a squib as he had feared. His uncle had even rewarded him with a toad named Trevor. But as he dodged glances and tired to ignore the whispers that were left in his wake he was not so sure he wanted to go anymore.

Getting his wand did not ease his nerves at all. Rather he found the whole experience quite unsettling.

The old man Ollivander had the scariest eyes he'd ever seen. They were ghostly pale blue and never seemed to blink. When those eyes fell on him, Neville felt his heart sink in his chest and his face heat. It did not help that every wand rejected him.

Maybe he was a squib after all, Neville thought with an odd mix of devastation and relief. He was devastated to be something as shameful as a squib. Yet he was relieved to not have to go to Hogwarts where everyone knew his name and would most certainly be stared at constantly.

But then something seemed to switch on in Ollivander's head. The old wand maker handed Neville a holly and phoenix feather wand. The effect was instantaneous. Neville felt warmth creep into his body.

"Well, well, well… how curious," the scary-eyed wand maker breathed. "How very curious…"

"What's curious?" Neville asked softly as the warmth drained away. Ollivander's too pale eyes locked on him. Neville wished he hadn't asked.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Longbottom. Every single wand. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in you wand, gave another feather– just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar."

Neville managed not to vomit on the floor.

* * *

5.

The Hogwarts Express was packed. Young witches and wizards eager to begin their magical education. They were loud in their excitement.

Mrs. Longbottom gave her grandson a goodbye kiss on the cheek before he hurried onto the train.

He tried to keep his head down so no one would see his scar, but occasionally someone would catch a glimpse of it and before he knew it the whole train was filled with whispers of "Neville Longbottom, The Boy Who Lived!"

Neville hated the title. His grandmother did too. She had never once called him by it and sneered whenever she heard it. Neville supposed it meant the same to her that it did to him. A reminder that he had lived and his parents had not.

Neville found a compartment that was nearly empty. The only occupant was a boy with flame-red hair and a scruffy looking old rat. The boy looked up as the compartment door slid open. His eyes drifted to Neville's forehead and his jaw went slack.

Neville shut the compartment door before the boy could say anything.

He ended up sitting with a muggle-born boy named Justin who had no idea who he was. When the boy did finally ask about his scar Neville told the truth.

"I've had it since I was a baby."

This seemed to satisfy Justin and the conversation quickly changed to Hogwarts – what it would be like, and how exciting it would be to learn magic. Neville said little but there was never an awkward pause. Justin was an avid conversationalist and Neville enjoyed being spoken to like a normal person.

He wondered if this was what being a nobody felt like. If so, he would have given anything to be a nobody the rest of his life.

* * *

6.

Neville's first months at Hogwarts were lonely. His fellow Gryffindors interpreted his innate bashfulness, and aversion to the subject of his scar, as superiority. This resulted in him being shunned. Even Justin, who had quickly learned of Neville's fame, came to view him as stuck up.

It was not until Halloween that Neville gained some semblance of a friend.

Hermione Granger, a very talented and intelligent muggle-born witch, never made any friends either. Her natural born talent for magic had earned her the scorn of not only her housemates but also her yearmates. They called her "Know-it-all" and "Show off" causing the girl to flee to the bathrooms in tears.

Neville felt sorry for Hermione. He actually liked her. She was smart, and talented, and only ever tried to help people. He didn't see why that was a bad thing. And when Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall shouting about a troll in the castle, Neville did the first brave thing he'd ever done.

He went to save Hermione.

* * *

7.

After the troll incident, Neville and Hermione became friends. It came easier to Hermione than it did Neville. She, obviously, had had friends before. For him, however, this was a first.

He was immensely proud of his new friend. She helped him with his spell work and the difference was phenomenal. Even Professor McGonagall remarked on his improvement. Before he knew it the only class he was still dreadful in was Potions, but that could not be helped.

* * *

8.

Neville had been locked out of Gryffindor tower after having once again forgotten the password. He was sitting on the floor hoping that another student, still out this close to curfew, would come by and let him in. He'd been waiting nearly twenty minutes when Professor Quirrell stepped out of the shadows.

"A little late to be loitering in the halls, isn't it, Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville knew something was wrong immediately. Aside from missing his characteristic stutter, Professor Quirrell looked livid. His eyes were slits. His whole body was tense. Coiled, Neville thought, like a cobra ready to strike. Fear sent Neville reaching for his wand, but before he could even raise his arm, it was gone. With a mere flick of Quirrell's wrist he had Neville's wand in his hand.

Disarmed, helpless, and alone, Neville was terrified. And his scar was _burning_.

"So unlucky," Quirrell tutted, taking a step towards him. The burning grew stronger as Quirrell neared. Neville stumbled backwards. The boy's hand flew to his scar in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

"…clever of Dumbledore, hiding the stone like that."

Neville nearly missed Quirrell's words through his pain. He'd never felt anything like it. His scar felt like it was searing through his skull.

"It won't be long before the old fool realizes that summons was a fake," Quirrell was saying. Neville had no idea what he was talking about.

"Not enough time for a second attempt, but no matter," the professor said raising his wand. "Killing you will more than enough."

Neville froze. His heart hammering in his chest. He was going to die! Quirrell was going to kill him!

"Wait," a voice hissed, causing Quirrell to still. "Let me see him. I want the boy to know who it is that will end his life."

Neville was puzzled as Quirrell carefully removed his turban. He turned, and the last thing Neville remembered before the blinding pain, was the Dark Lord's face glaring death at him from the back of Quirrell's head.

* * *

9.

Neville woke to find himself in the Hospital Wing, and no worse for wear. Professor Dumbledore sat on the edge of the bed.

The Headmaster told him everything. How Quirrell had been possessed by the spirit of Voldemort, how he had lured Dumbledore away with a fake summons from the Ministry, how he had tried and failed to steal the Philosopher's Stone from within the castle, and how Dumbledore had returned to stop Voldemort and Quirrell before they could kill him.

Neville was too shocked to say much. He was just grateful to be alive.

The Headmaster left with a cheery reminder to not to forget the Common Room password next time.

* * *

10.

Summer was hot and long. His gran had allowed him to use the family owl, an old tawny with a foul temper. Neville wrote many letters to Hermione. He got none in return.

He told himself he was stupid to cry over something like that.

* * *

11.

"Come along, Neville," Gran urged.

Neville grumbled and ducked his head as he walked. People were already turning to stare at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to feel their eyes on him.

His foot caught on a loose cobblestone. Neville felt himself lurch forward. Reflexively, he raised his hands to catch himself in what he knew would be a pretty painful fall. But the impact never came. Someone had caught him by his robe, keeping him from hitting the ground. The person pulled him back and Neville steadied himself.

Beautiful. That was the only word Neville knew that could come close to describing his savior. The boy was not pretty or handsome. He was beautiful the way a feral cat was beautiful. Intelligent, lithe, and deadly in its beauty. The boy had long, black hair that simply refused to be tamed, and vivid green eyes caught every move Neville made. He shivered under the gaze of those eyes.

"Uh, thanks," Neville mumbled feeling his face burn.

The boy blinked at him, looking almost surprised by Neville's gratitude. Slowly he nodded.

In the distanced someone shouted in outrage. The boy jumped, glancing around himself, before taking off, disappearing easily into the crowd. Neville stared after him, wondering just who the boy had been.

* * *

12.

Gilderoy Lockhart was the name of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He was a famous wizard with flowing robes, and dashing good looks.

Hermione thought he was brilliant. Neville thought he was a buffoon. By the end of the first lesson Hermione reluctantly agreed with him.

* * *

13.

The attacks started with Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, who was found below a message proclaiming the 'Chamber of Secrets' had been opened, but quickly progressed to students. One by one, muggle-born students were being petrified.

Students began to whisper around him. They'd point and stare, and for once Neville wished they were only gawking at his scar. Hermione glared at them and pulled him away.

"Honestly," she huffed, "how can they think _you're_ the Heir of Slytherin? If you wanted muggle-borns dead you never would have saved me!"

* * *

14.

The rumors about Neville eventually came to a halt, but at a high cost. He sat by Hermione's side. His only friend was the latest victim of the Heir.

The teachers were frantic. All students were escorted to and from class. Curfew was strictly enforced.

Without Hermione, Neville had never felt so alone. He hoped they finished the Mandrake Restorative Draught soon.

* * *

15.

In the end, Neville never found out _who_ the Heir of Slytherin was or how the students had been petrified. Hermione was cured, no one had died, and the attacks had stopped, so, Neville decided it didn't really matter. Ginny Weasley did act a bit odd, though.

Lockhart resigned, though no one was really upset to see him go. Quirrell had been a better teacher than Lockhart, and he'd had Voldemort on the back of his head!

Hermione promised to write twice a week to make up for the letters he had missed.

* * *

16.

Gran hadn't wanted him to see the papers. She had hidden most of them, and burned them immediately after reading them.

Neville got his hands on one eventually and almost wished he hadn't.

_'Escaped Mass-murderer, Sirius Black, Remains At Large!_  
_Well known supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named continues to evade Aurors after being the first wizard ever to escape from Azkaban Prison nearly a week ago.'_

* * *

17.

Sirius Black was every bit as terrifying as Neville imagined. Tattered, striped prison garb hung from the madman's gaunt, hollow form. He hardly looked human.

It had been a trap, Neville realized, and a clever one. Drag Ron Weasley away in the form of a dog, and have them follow him far from the safety of Hogwarts.

Black would kill him he was sure of it.

Hermione placed herself in front of him in an act of bravery that was overwhelming.

"If you want to kill Neville then you'll have to kill me too."

Neville wanted nothing more than to hug Hermione and tell her what a wonderful, amazing, brave, stupid person she was.

Black hardly seemed to notice her, though. His dark, sunken, murderous eyes looking through her, through Neville, even. Locked on the form of Ron.

"Get out of my way, girl," his voice like sandpaper. "I don't want either of you."

It was then that Professor Lupin entered. The haggard looking Defense teacher had never been such a welcome sight. But then Neville noticed something was wrong. Lupin's wand was held loosely in his hand. The professor looked…confused. Unsure of what to do.

"Remus!" Black shouted. There was an emotion Neville couldn't quite place. It sounded almost like joy but the idea of Black; this broken, twisted shell of a man being joyful was too unnatural to be real.

Professor Lupin flinched at the name. He gripped his wand tighter and his eyes narrowed.

"Tell me the truth, Sirius." Neville had never heard his Defense teacher sound so hostile. He took a step back pulling Hermione with him. "Was it you? Were you the one who-." Lupin's voice broke.

"No!" Black denied fiercely. "It wasn't me, Remus! You have to believe me! It wasn't me! I would never betray James and Lily. They were my friends. My family! I would die first! It wasn't me. It was _him_!"

"You switched…" Lupin said slowly, his eyes wide. "You switched without telling me?" Slowly Lupin lowered his wand and hugged Black.

Neville wondered if he had missed something.

* * *

18.

The world around him was on fire. Witches and wizards, who had only hours ago been cheering on their chosen quidditch team, were now running every which way in a desperate race to escape. Neville held Hermione's hand tight, determined not to lose her in the chaos.

"C'mon!" Ron shouted at them. The trio turned for the cover of the forest.

In the sky above, a gleaming green skull and snake appeared. Screams filled the air.

* * *

19.

The cup had been tampered with. Someone, probably the same someone who had put Neville's name in the Goblet, had turned the cup into a portkey.

His arm was bleeding. His whole body shook with the after effects of the torture curse. Neville didn't try to stop the tears that fell as he held the body of Cedric Diggory, and spoke the words that would change everything.

"Voldemort's back."

* * *

20.

Neville ran a finger over the photograph. They looked so young, all of them. Too young to be fighting a war. Too young to die for that war.

Gran had never shown him this photo before. He wasn't even sure she knew about it. It was, after all a photo of the Order of the Phoenix, and Gran hadn't been a member. His parent's had been. They look proud, and strong, and unafraid… and young.

"He saved my life once, your dad."

Neville turned to find Sirius Black watching him with a sad smile.

"I was so stupid back then," Black went on shaking his head. "Death Eaters had set Fiendfyre to a muggle family's home. We were trying to put it out when I heard the kids inside. I ran in without thinking. You dad followed after me. If Frank hadn't pulled me out I would've been burnt alive."

"And the kids?" Neville asked. Black's face fell and he looked away.

Neville felt sick. He looked back to the photo, trying to push away the thought, when he noticed a face that looked familiar.

"Who is this?" he asked suddenly, pointing to a man with messy black hair and glasses.

"That's James," Black said with a smile that looked more painful than happy. "James Potter. He was my best mate at Hogwarts. Like a brother to me. Next to him, that's Lily, I was the best man at their wedding."

There was a long silence as they remembered the dead.

"Why do you ask?" Black's voice breaking the silence.

"Oh, erm," Neville looked back at the grinning James Potter in the photo. In his mind the man's image was replaced with the face of a young boy with startling green eyes and wild black hair. "He just reminded me of someone I met once. A boy. He looks a lot like him but his eyes were different. Really green…" Neville trailed off as he noticed Black's face.

The man grew pale and his eyes wide. He didn't seem to see Neville anymore.

"Neville, Mr. Black," Hermione called from downstairs. "Mrs. Weasley says dinner's ready."

Neville jumped at the opportunity to escape. He didn't see Black all night.

* * *

21.

Neville should have stayed in bed. Even if he could not sleep. Even if he couldn't drown out the sound of Ron's snoring. Even if he was curious about who could possibly be downstairs having a conversation at this time of night. Neville should have stayed in bed. If he had, he wouldn't have felt so horrible.

Instead, Neville's curiosity got the better of him. Neville, pulled by the sounds of shuffling feet and hushed voices, threw off his sheets and tiptoed across the floor. Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Suddenly, the exchange below was much clearer.

"He's gone, Sirius," Lupin's voice carried up the stairs. He sounded tired. Weak. Like those three words took all his strength to say. "We both know that. Bellatrix confessed! She boasted about that night!"

"She never confessed to killing Harry." Black didn't sound like Black at all. In the time Neville had come to know the man, the escaped convict had always sounded broken. Now his voice was full of life. Neville found it… unsettling.

"She bragged about killing James and Lily," Black went on, "but she never mentioned Harry. She tormented me for years in Azkaban – telling me how they died, but she never said a thing about Harry. Why would she do that? It wasn't to spare my feelings."

"Sirius…" Lupin's voice trailed off.

"What if everyone was wrong?" Black asked, ignorant of his friend's exhausted tone. "What if Harry didn't die that night? What if he's still alive?"

"And what reason would Bellatrix Lestrange have for sparing him?" Lupin counter questioned.

There was a silence. Neville risked opening the door wider.

"Bellatrix was a Death Eater and a murderer," Lupin continued, his tone cold and factual. "She hated muggleborns and bloodtraitors. Do you really think she would spare the child of two just because he was an infant? Harry was everything Bellatrix hated – he was James and Lily's son."

Another painful silence. A sigh. "I know you want him to be alive more than anything… _I_ want him to be alive more than anything, but…" Lupin stopped.

"He is alive, Remus," Black said with absolute conviction. "I know he is."

"What makes you think so?" Lupin spoke Neville's question aloud. Neither was prepared for the answer.

"Neville saw him."

Neville should have stayed in bed. Because if he had, he would never have known he'd given an already broken man false hope.

* * *

22.

Black wasn't there at breakfast. Neither was Lupin.

For that, Neville was grateful. He didn't think he could handle sitting at the same table with them after what he had heard.

* * *

End.

Found this buried in my documents folder, and, after filling in some holes, figured I might as well share it with you. I doubt I will do any more to it. Anyway hope you enjoyed!


	4. Metamorphosis AU

HP AU, Warning for totally creepy!

* * *

The man smiled at him as his red eyes scrutinized the boy with no name. They passed over his form noting every imperfection. "Hair still messy, too small, nose wrong shape," and of course, "eyes still green".

As with every inspection it ended with a smile from the red-eyed man who would proclaim him "coming along nicely" as he touched his face with a gesture that was meant to be loving but left the child felling colder than before. Then the Red-Eyed Man would leave.

The child was left in the darkness of his cell.

The Boy With No Name did not know how long he had lived in this place and he dared not ask. He would not ask The Red-Eyed Man and he most certainly would not ask himself. To the boy this cell was his world. He did not know what lay beyond those four walls and he would never wonder. To wonder would mean to imagine. To imagine would mean to think. The Red-Eyed Man did not like the boy thinking and he always knew when he had been. Thought was accompanied by pain so it was best to avoid it all together.

The Red-Eyed Man was not the only one who came to visit The Boy With No Name. There was also The Woman With Black Hair.

The Boy With No Name liked The Woman With Black Hair, though he would never think it. She brought him food and water, bathed him, and brought him clean clothes every day. She would never speak to him unless it was an order. He was good at following orders as they did not require thought, merely action.

Then there were the days he did not like. The days where his orders were to drink a concoction that left a stale and bitter taste in his mouth. Then The Red-Eyed Man would wave a long stick at him and mutter the same nonsensical words over and over. On these days The Boy With No Name would scream and thrash and his four-walled world would grow dark.

Some days later The Red-Eyed Man would inspect him and note the changes. "Hair less messy, not as small, nose improved shape," and of course, "eyes still green".

The Boy With No Name was left alone in his world once more.

* * *

When Snape stepped inside the small dark room he was not at all prepared for the sight that greeted him.

A boy, no older than seven, sat on the floor with his back propped up against the stone wall. He was thin but not sickly so. His skin was a luminous pale told of little to no exposure to sunlight. Black hair fell past his ears and framed his thin face.

The boy's stillness was what unsettled him the most. Years of teaching had shown him that children were hyperactive, impudent little brats. Never once had he seen a child be so… still. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of the boy's chest he would have thought the child dead.

"Now child, it is rude to ignore your guest," the Dark Lord chastised with a smirk that made Snape's skin crawl. "Come here so Severus may get a better look at you."

The child moved as if possessed. Slender limbs pushed him off the cold floor and carried him towards the two men. As the boy neared Snape saw his face was void of any emotion. His eyes, heavy lidded with irises a shockingly vivid shade of green, were glazed over. They were eyes that looked but saw nothing. Snape suppressed a shudder. What could make a child so young so broken?

"My Lord," Snape began with a dry throat. He swallowed before continuing, "what, may I ask, is this?"

"Incredible isn't it? This Severus, is an… experiment I've been conducting for several years now."

Snape's blood was freezing in his veins. He did not want to hear this. He did not want to know what experiments the Dark Lord was doing that involved children.

"As you know, Severus, all wizards have a magical core within them that becomes larger as they age. The larger the core the more powerful the wizard. My experiment was to see whether a child beginning at young age receiving regular magical boosting elixirs and magic transfusions would develop a greater magical core."

Snape now felt physically ill. Magical transfusions and boosting elixirs were meant only for the direst of circumstances such as severe magical exhaustion and even then they were restricted to adult wizards with fully developed magical cores. To use such things on a child who suffered no such conditions could have disastrous results. Magical poisoning – a rare condition where a wizard's magic became overwhelming – was lethal!

"The results have been quite fascinating. Not only has the boy's magical core increased, but the magical transfusions have had some rather surprising, yet pleasant side-effects." The Dark Lord's grin was twisted with his insanity. "It seems that years of transferring my own magic into the boy has altered his physical appearance. He now bears a greater resemblance to me than to his biological parents!"

* * *

End.

Another fic dug out of my folder. I'd forgotten how creepy this idea was. I actually saved this with a double strike through because it disturbed me so much! This is what **Pinpoint** would have become if I had decided to continue it.


	5. Stray HPxSherlock

Harry Potter x Sherlock, Homeless!Harry

* * *

John blinked and wondered why he bothered to be surprised. One would think that, with someone like Sherlock as a flat mate, walking in to find an obviously homeless man eating dry cereal with his fingers while handcuffed to his chair would be absolutely ordinary compared to Sherlock's usual high jinks.

"Uh, hello," John greeted uncertainly.

The man looked up from his bowl at John. He looked like any other member of the Homeless Network. His clothes were stained and worn, and several sizes too big for him. His hair was a mess and he had some months' worth of beard that made telling his age more than a little difficult.

The handcuffs concerned John. What reason could Sherlock have for restraining the man?

"Hello," he said simply before returning to his cereal.

"Er, right." John moved past the handcuffed man, intent on finding Sherlock.

John did find Sherlock – in John's room, going through John's drawers.

"What are you doing?" he demanded in indignation.

"Looking for a shirt to go with these trousers," Sherlock answered, holding up a pair of John's trousers without looking at him.

"I meant," John starting looking around at the chaos Sherlock had wreaked. He'd tossed John's clothes all about the room. "Why are you in my room, going through my things?"

"I needed to find suitable clothes for a man of approximately 1.66 meters – a bit shorter than yourself, I realize, but yours are a far better fit than my own."

John chose to ignore the somewhat sensitive subject of his height.

"Does this have anything to do with the homeless man in our kitchen?" he asked as Sherlock pulled out another of John's shirts.

"This has precisely to do with that," Sherlock confirmed has he examined the article of clothing.

John eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sure, Sherlock paid those in the Homeless Network well for their information, but he'd never pegged Sherlock for the humanitarian type. There was also that one small detail…

"And you have him handcuffed… why?"

"To keep him from escaping, obviously," Sherlock said dismissively. He nodded and tossed the shirt over his shoulder into what might have been a 'maybe' pile, John wasn't sure. It was really less a pile as it was a jumble of John's belongings.

"Esca– Sherlock!"

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed, looking John for the first time during their conversation.

"Please tell me you did not bring that man here by force," John pleaded, praying the brilliant man would not do something so brainless.

"…"

"Sherlock!"

"Well, it's not as though he fought very hard against it," Sherlock argued, sounding not unlike a petulant child. "If he was truly opposed to being here someone of his physical build could have easily–"

"Sherlock, you can't just grab people off the street against their will! That's kidnapping! You do know kidnapping is bad, right?" John asked, because with Sherlock one could never be sure.

"Of course I know, John. And it wasn't…" Sherlock frowned, seemingly realizing that he had, indeed, abducted the man.

John sighed heavily. "Alright, I'll go talk to him. Hopefully I can't convince him not to phone the police on us." He would rather not spend the night in jail.

John marched out of his ravaged room and into the kitchen. The man had apparently finished his bowl of dry cereal and was now examining the flat from his chair. His right wrist tethered to the chair by the cuffs. When he noticed John he turned – focusing narrow green eyes on him. The man didn't seem terribly upset by his ordeal. He wasn't glaring or tense. John took that as a good sign.

"Er, look," John began, not really knowing how to explain the situation to the homeless man. "I'm very sorry about Sherlock. He didn't mean anything by it. He doesn't really understand that you can't drag people off the street, or really any normal human behavior."

The man chuckled at that. The sound threw John off a bit. Most people didn't laugh about their kidnappers while they were still kidnapped.

"So, I'll just get those off," John pointed uncomfortably at the handcuffs. Handcuffs, Sherlock? Really? "and you can be on your way. No harm done." He hoped his smile didn't look as desperate as he felt.

"Really, John," Sherlock said, appearing at his side with a bundle of John's clothes under arm. "You're just going to throw him back out in the street? In the cold? Have you no heart?"

John glared at him. Of course Sherlock would try to make _him_ out to be the bad guy.

"These ought to fit," Sherlock said, ignoring John's glare and holding the clothes out to the chained man. "They'll be a bit loose, I'm afraid. John's neglected to keep up with his daily exercise requirements of late."

John's jaw went slack. Did he really just–

"I've included a belt." Sherlock handed the man John's clothes, which he accepted with his free arm.

"Thank you," he said, and John could see amusement in those bright green eyes.

"The bathroom is right through there. No escaping," Sherlock ordered.

John glowered at him.

The man chuckled again, and Sherlock un-cuffed him. He stood slowly like his legs were stiff. John wondered just how long Sherlock had kept him chained up. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. It wasn't long before John heard the shower running.

"See, John," Sherlock said with a bright smile as he sat down. "If he truly did not want to be here he would have attempted to flee."

"So, what? You want to keep him? He's not a stray puppy, Sherlock."

"If you are upset because I gave him your clothes–"

"This whole mess is what I'm upset about," John cut him off. "Why did you kidnap him, anyway?"

"He's wrong."

"What?" John asked. What did that mean?

"He's wrong," Sherlock reiterated. "He doesn't fit. Sure he looks the part of any homeless person, but it's all a lie."

"So he's not really homeless?" John asked in surprise. Why would a man fake being homeless? "A spy?"

"No, he's most certainly homeless. He wears those over-sized rags of his with a familiarity that would be impossible to fake. His eyesight is poor, yet he does not have any corrective lenses. From his ears and nasal bridge I can tell he's worn eyeglasses from a very young age, though he hasn't worn any for some time now. Six months at least. The fact that he has no replacement lenses is a clear indication that he has not the money for them – or anything else for that matter.

"A spy is a possibility, though I very much doubt it – that would be too obvious. He's careful with his surrounding. He observes people and places with an astuteness one does not often see outside the police force. I'd say he's had some training but never attained full rank of whatever that training was for."

"So you brought him here because he's a potential ex-policeman who'd lost his glasses?" John asked slowly, trying to follow Sherlock's thought process.

On the table Sherlock's phone started to ring. He picked it up and glanced at the caller before rejecting the call.

"Mycroft?" John guessed.

"Lestrade," Sherlock corrected.

John frowned. Sherlock didn't usually reject calls from Lestrade. Calls from Lestrade meant they needed his help on a case. Sherlock _lived_ for cases.

"No, that isn't why," Sherlock said, continuing their conversation. "I've been working with the Homeless Network for some time now. It has always been useful but not always reliable. I always found it odd that, nearly a year ago, suddenly it had become far more efficient, far more accurate, than ever before. I could never pinpoint why, until I realize – someone was orchestrating it."

Sherlock's phone rang again. This time he didn't even look at the device before rejecting the call.

"Somewhere," he went on, "behind the scenes someone was letting them know where to look, who to talk to, how to find information and to pass it on discretely. Someone aiding the Homeless Network, yet never directly benefiting from it nor involving himself in it. I could never learn who it was. Every attempt to get close only led me to dead ends. It was as though he were a phantom."

A self-satisfied grin bloomed on Sherlock's face. "And then I found him. The man that is wrong. The man that doesn't fit. Don't you see, John? It's him! It has to be! That man is the Maestro of the Homeless Network!"

Sherlock's phone rang a third time. This time he shut it off and flung it across the room. John cringed when it hit the wall. Sherlock probably was going to need a new phone.

"Okay," John said slowly, thinking of the homeless man in their flat, and trying to imagine him as some great conductor of London's homeless underground. He certainly didn't look like any kind of mastermind, but John had learned from living with Sherlock – appearances were often deceiving. "But, how can you be sure it's him? And how did you find him?"

"Of course it's him! The evidence points to no one else." Sherlock hesitated for a moment looking almost embarrassed. "I… must admit I found him by chance. I did not notice him immediately, but once I had I knew there as something different about him. He carefully isolates himself from the Homeless Network. He blends in completely, yet never fitting in. The others refused to speak of him, however it was not out of fear or shunning. They obviously had great respect for him – respect he could only have earned by doing something immense. I knew he had to be the one."

"And then you… what? Invited him over for tea and bondage?"

Sherlock huffed in indignation. "I confronted him on the matter. His attempts to evade the subject were halfhearted at best. He was obviously toying with me – testing me – seeing how far I was willing to push to discover the truth. So I cuffed him to myself and brought him here to interrogate," Sherlock concluded, as though this action was completely logical.

"His struggles were minimal," he added upon seeing John's face.

"Do you even hear yourself right now?" John asked, astounded.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked down.

"It's Greg," he told Sherlock, holding it up.

"Don't answer," he said, uninterested.

"It could be important. He's probably got a case for you."

"I already have a case," Sherlock said dismissively.

"What case? You mean the man you kidnapped?"

"I need to know how he does it." Sherlock pressed his finger tips together. His mind clearly elsewhere.

John blinked at him. "Right, I'm answering." Because Sherlock's '_case_' was not exactly healthy or legal.

"Don't," Sherlock ordered, but it was too late.

"Hello?"

"Is he there?" Lestrade asked, sounding worn out and more than a little angry.

"I'm not in. I'm busy."

"Yep," John said, popping the 'p'. "And he is most certainly not busy."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Put him on, will you," Lestrade said, and John held the phone out to Sherlock.

"It's for you," he said, trying and failing to hold in an amused smile.

He snatched it out of John's hand.

"_What?_" Sherlock snarled into the phone.

John watched a rather peculiar show of emotions on Sherlock's face. He seemed to go from irritated to giddy to annoyed, and finally all three at once. He wondered what Lestrade was telling Sherlock to get him so worked up.

It was at that moment that the bathroom door creaked open. The person who emerged was completely unrecognizable as the man that has been chained to the chair. Gone were those horrid rags he'd been draped in. In their place, the man wore one of John's white button-up shirts with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a pair of dark blue jeans.

It seemed Sherlock was right about his need for a belt. The man was far thinner than John. Even with the all the buttons done up the shirt still hung loose around his neck, revealing pronounced collarbones. Without the belt the jeans might very well have slid right off his hips.

He had shaved his beard, and with it gone John was surprised to see just how young he was. He couldn't possibly have been past his mid twenties. He had expected someone Sherlock considered a 'Maestro' to be older. His hair was just as long and messy, but now at least it was clean. He dabbed it dry with a bath towel.

"Very well. I'm on my way." Sherlock clicked off the phone and pushed himself out of his seat. "Lestrade is in need of my assistance. I may be gone for some time. John, stay here and make sure he doesn't get away. You!" Sherlock pointed threateningly at the man. "John is a doctor and ex-military. He knows how to kill people."

To his credit, the man merely quirked an eyebrow in response.

"Must have been a seven," John muttered when Sherlock rushed out.

The man turned to John. "Is he always like that?"

"Unfortunately, yes," John answered rubbing his hands over his face. Wasn't this day over yet?

The man chuckled. At least he had a good sense of humor. He eased himself onto the sofa. "You seem happy together."

"Oh. No. I'm not-" John floundered. He should have been better at this by now. "We're not together."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized quickly, looking confused. "I just thought- You two seemed… close."

"I'm not gay. And Sherlock is… well, Sherlock." And that should really explain everything about his flat mate. "We're just friends."

"I'm John, by the way. John Watson." John offered his hand. When the man took it John couldn't help but notice several scars across his forearm.

"Harry," he said, offering no surname. "Thanks for the clothes. It's refreshing to wear something that isn't falling apart for a change."

"You know, you don't have to stay here," John told him, letting him know Sherlock's threats were empty. "I won't stop you from leaving."

"That's alright, I don't mind. Not like I really have anywhere else to go."

"Er, right."

"It's fine, Dr. Watson," Harry said with an easy smile. "You don't have to skirt around the issue. I don't mind being homeless."

"You don't?" he asked, surprised.

"Mhmm. At first I hated it, but then," Harry shrugged. "I guess I adjusted. It helped that there were others, people in the same boat as me. We took care of each other. Looked out for one another. There are worse ways to live."

"So, is what Sherlock thinks true? Are you really the, er, 'Maestro of the Homeless Network'?" John asked, trying not to cringe too much at the name Sherlock had come up with.

Harry laughed. "Never heard that one before." He paused a moment, considering. "I guess you could say so. I do have something like a baton." Harry grinned at that, and John felt like he was missing out on some joke.

John nodded. It really wasn't that much of a shock that Sherlock was right.

The two of them ended up chatting for several hours and John found he quite liked Harry. He was extraordinarily good-natured and polite. John poured tea while he listened to him talk fondly of the members of the Homeless Network. He seemed to know every one of them by name and apparently befriend them all. John was beginning to understand why Harry hadn't minded living on the street. He had built a family there.

In return, John told Harry about his and Sherlock's exploits, many of which Harry knew quite a bit about. It made sense considering that Harry's connection to the Homeless Network, but John still found himself shocked by the level of detail Harry was privy to.

John wondered what Harry planned to do now that Sherlock had made it his mission to all but dissect the man. Huh, there was a thought. Oh god, he hoped Sherlock wasn't going to try dissecting him.

* * *

It was half past midnight and Sherlock had yet to return. John didn't feel right asking Harry to leave so he offered him the sofa. Harry accepted graciously. An hour later Harry was fast asleep on the couch and John was fighting to stay awake in the kitchen.

He heard the door open, jolting him out of his dozing. Sherlock was back.

"You've been gone long," John said, stretching. "What was it?"

"Serial killer," Sherlock said. Ah, of course, Sherlock loved those. "Made his first kill forty-two hours ago. I sought out the Homeless Network for leads."

"'First kill'?" John repeated with furrowed brow. "How can he be a serial killer if he's only killed once?"

"Carefully premeditated murder, seemingly random choice of victim, no traceable evidence or murder weapon," Sherlock listed. "The murderer enjoyed the kill. Trust me, John, he's just getting started."

"You let him sleep," Sherlock said sounding dejected.

The sudden change of subject threw him. "What? Oh," John said remembering Harry who was still asleep on the sofa. "It's one thirty in the morning, what did you expect?"

"He'll be groggy now. Not to mention irritable and uncooperative." He sighed heavily. "That will make interrogation difficult."

John frowned. "You're not waking him up at one thirty to interrogate him. Harry's been incredibly understanding about everything, but he's not a toy. He doesn't exist for your amusement."

"'Harry'?" Sherlock asked, looking confused.

"That's his name," John said with an exasperated sigh. "Look, it's late. I'm tired. And _someone_ went and made a mess of my room."

"…"

"Sherlock," John said sternly.

"Fine!" Sherlock relented, throwing his hands in the air and making his way to John's room. John followed him.

It looked like a hurricane had localized there. Drawers hung up open and clothes were tossed about. John could hardly see the floor through it all. Sherlock grumbled has he picked up each article and folded it before handing it to John to be put away.

"What you said before," John began, silencing Sherlock's grumbles. "That Harry was a lie, what did you mean?"

"From what I have observed there is no reason for him to be living on the street. He is of above average intelligence and not uneducated, it is doubtful he was born into poverty. He has no history of substance abuse and suffers no physical or mental disabilities that would prevent him from holding down a job. He is a man of simple needs, not the type to waste away his money. I can only conclude his way of life was a deliberate, conscious decision."

"You're saying he chose to be homeless?" John asked, disbelieving.

"Not to _be_ homeless, but to remain so. What I cannot ascertain is why. Is it a cover – a protection from someone or some group? A self-imposed punishment to atone for some past crime, either real or imagined?"

Both men were quiet, and John mulled over Sherlock's theories. Harry didn't seem like he was afraid or hiding. He didn't seem like a criminal, either. To John, Harry seemed like a perfectly normal twenty-something-year-old man. But then, most perfectly normal twenty-something-year-old men didn't live on the street.

John set a pair of folded up trousers back in the drawer when a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Sherlock…"

"Hmm?"

"Did you… give him my pants, as well?"

Sherlock, pointedly, said nothing.

* * *

End.

Yes, John. Sherlock did go through your underwear drawer.

I don't know why but I really love the idea of Harry living on the street. It feels very humbling. I'm undecided on if Harry is in his world or a different one so I'll leave that decision up to the reader.


	6. Tears of Ages HPxWolf's Rain

Harry Potter x Wolf's Rain, Reincarnation

* * *

Tell me what the rain knows  
O are these the Tears of Ages  
That wash away the Wolf's Way  
And leave not a trace of the day?  
_––Tell Me What The Rain Knows_

* * *

Long ago, before the casters of magic hid themselves away from the world, there grew a single violet flower among thousands of white petaled plants. This violet flower never wilted or withered. It remained in full bloom from the heights of summer through winter's chill.

Word of this strange plant spread through the surrounding villages and many believed the flower to be the key to immortality.

One day a young human, seeking the flower's power, plucked the plant from the ground. Moments later he died a most painful death. Every human that touched the plant meet the same gruesome fate for the flower was poison.

For centuries the violet flower was passed from human to human killing all who touched. None were able to uncover the secret of the violet flower's everlasting life. At last, it was at last sealed away in a place where no one could again touch it. At least not for many years…

* * *

Angry, grey clouds blocked out the sky. A single dark cloaked figure made his way though the streets of London. The few muggles that were out in such abysmal weather did their best to stay out of his way, though none of them were conscious of the effort. A pleasing result. It proved the concealing spell he had use was indeed working. Though the true test was yet to come.

The dark cloaked man turned off the street and into an alley. To any of the muggles he had passed the alley would appear to be a dead end, but in reality there was door concealed by magic. It was one of the many entrances to the Ministry of Magic.

He was pleased to see that no one noticed him. The spell was strong enough to keep most witches and wizards from even looking at him. Thought, in one instance he crossed paths with a rather powerful Curse Breaker.

For a moment fear seized him as the Curse Breaker's eyes landed on him. Neither man moved for what felt like an eternity until finally the Curse Breaker's eyes glazed over and passed him by. The dark cloaked man breathed a small sigh of relief then continued on his mission.

He had researched the subject of immortality extensively. There were very few ways of achieving it. His best hope, the Philosopher's Stone, had been destroyed several years previous. And its creator, famed alchemist Nicholas Flamel, had refused to reveal the secret of its creation. The old man had remained silent on the subject of the stone right up to his final dying moments.

However, there was one secret he had been able to pry from the old sorcerer. An ancient flower that never wilted and had the power to kill with a single touch. The alchemist had said, though none had ever been able to extract the life giving properties of the plant, he believed he had found a way. Upon the old wizard's death, the dark cloaked man had stolen his notes regarding the magical flower. If they were correct then the cloaked man now held the answer to achieving immortality. All that was left was to obtain the flower.

The Department of Mysteries, he found, contained a great many unusual and decidedly disturbing things. One could spend hours gawking at the Hall of Prophecy alone.

Behind a small, barely visible door was the room he sought. The room was small. Not much larger than the average broom closet, but large enough for the one object it contained. A single dark flower floated in the center of a glass sphere. The dark man smiled a smile of twisted joy.

* * *

Cold drops beat against the glass of the car window. Harry glared up at the clouds. His vibrant green eyes shot daggers at them. He didn't want to be here, in his uncle's car, driving back to the prison known as number 4 Privet Drive.

If things had been different he would be here at all. If only he'd been able to stop Pettigrew from escaping. If only he could have proven Sirius's innocence. Then he would never have had to return here. He wouldn't have to face his relatives again. He could have lived happily with his godfather once his name had been cleared.

If only.

Harry clenched his teeth to stop a mournful sigh from escaping. With his uncle in the front seat and already in a foul mood – if the color of his face was anything to go by – it was in Harry's best interest to remain as silent as possible. Sighing would only draw attention to him, and attention had proved to rarely be a good thing for Harry.

He closed his eyes as he tried to calm himself. There was no use crying over spilled milk. Pettigrew had escaped and took with him any chance of clearing his godfather's name. But Harry was hopeful for the future. Eventually Pettigrew would be caught. He was certain of it.

Uncle Vernon pulled the car into the drive. Harry's fat uncle barked at him to get his things inside before any of the neighbors saw. So Harry made sure to take his time as he unloaded his trunk and Hedwig's cage.

Harry dropped his trunk as soon as he stepped foot inside his room. He kicked the door closed behind him then unlatched Hedwig's cage. Technically, Harry was breaking the rules. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia didn't want Hedwig out of her cage in the house, but Harry doubted they would dare enter his room to check.

The boy fell back on his bed. His snowy owl perched on the headboard above him. He brushed her soft wing with the back of his hand. Sleep began to overtake him. The pounding of the raindrops outside was soothing. His arm grew heavy and he let it fall across his chest. Let last thing he saw before his mind drifted away, was a pair of amber owl eyes.

_He lay on the concrete. The light of the moon was fractured by the glass dome the encased the city. The air was stale. Each breath he took was merely for survival. There was nothing pleasant about the air here, contaminated as it was. _

_Part of him longed to be back in the land of his birth, where the air was clean and the light of the moon was not locked behind a barrier. But he knew he could not go back. While one half wished for home, the other half was urging him ever onward. His heart was being pulled by something. Some force of gravity. _

_In his mind this force spoke to him. Called to him. It said, "_Search… for Paradise!_"_

* * *

End.

Another fossilized fic idea. I am done with it. Not doing anything more with this. Ever.


	7. Tulpa HPxRotG

Harry Potter X Rise of the Guardians(because it was a shockingly good movie), ficlet

* * *

Harry has never believed in Santa, or the Tooth Fairy. He knows better than to believe in anything so silly and fantastical. There are no reindeer that fly across the night sky. There are no fairies that leave coins under pillows.

Harry knows this.

He also knows there is something in the dark… and it is a bringer of nightmares.

Pitch wipes fearful tears from his cheeks. He makes the same remorseful apologies he always makes, the same guilt ridden regrets as always. His words are empty, Harry knows. He's not stupid. Pitch enjoys it – watching Harry writhe in the grip of his nightmare. Harry can see it in those hungry, cat-like eyes of his. The light of his amusement is poorly hidden.

Harry only wonders why he bothers to lie.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," Pitch Black says, his voice thick with false remorse. He rubs comforting circles on his back, the way Harry'd seen Aunt Petunia do for Dudley, as Harry hiccups away his tears.

Before Harry can pull away, before he can curse him – accuse him – spit back words loathing, Pitch has already begun to twist the knife in Harry's heart. "You know I would make them stop if I could. The nightmares are my curse. The price we both must pay to keep me here. To make them stop I would have to leave you, Harry. You would be all _alone_. In the _dark_." He smooths back Harry's hair and smiles with shark's teeth.

Harry shudders. He can hardly remember what it was like before he met Pitch. It feels like a lifetime ago. A time when the only looks he received were those of disgust. The only touches were fists and feet. The only words were hateful and biting. A time Harry can't bear to go back to.

"Don't," Harry whispers. His voice is raspy. His eyes are bruised. He hasn't sleep the full night since Pitch arrived, yet the boy clings to him like he thinks he will drown if he lets go. "Don't go. Please don't go. I–I know you don't– don't mean to. It's not your fault. Please don't go, Pitch. You're the only friend I have."

Pitch's grin grows as he takes in the sweet sound of the boy's fear.

"I'm not going anywhere, little one. I'll always be here… in the dark."

Harry shivers and buries his face in Pitch's chest. "I'm scared, Pitch."

"Oh, I know." Pitch kisses his hair. "Go to sleep, Harry. Everything will be fine so long as we're together."

Harry reluctantly closes his eyes. He wonders why he bothers to lie.

* * *

He dreams of green lightning. It cracks the sky open and sets the earth on fire. Black smoke chokes and burns in his lungs.

Someone screams.

The sound rings in his ears for hours after he wakes.

* * *

End.

Just a little something that popped into my head. I figured if Harry believed in any of the RoTG spirits it would be Pitch Black. Pitch would keep close to his one believer and grow stronger through Harry's fear. Harry being young and lonely would suffer through the nightmares to keep his "friend". Might add to later…

A tulpa is something created from thought.


End file.
